LUKE THE LABOURER, 

R 4265 OR- 

BS L7 
333 THE LOST SON: 

>py 1 

A DOMESTIC MELO-DRAMA, 

IN TWO ilCTS. 



PRINTED FROM THE ACTING COPY. 



TO WHICH ARE ADDED, CAST OF THE CHARACTERS, 

ENTRANCES AND EXITS, RELATIVE POSITIONS Oi' 

THE PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE, AND THE 

WHOLE OF THE STAGE BUSINESS, AS NOW 

PERFORMED IN THE THEATRES ROYAL, 

LONDON. 



BY JOHN BALDWIN BUCSSTONE. 



BALTIMORE : 

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JOS. ROBINSON. 

1838. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Original Cast of Characters at the Adelphi Thea- 
tre^ Strand. 

Squire Chase, (Lord of the Manor,) Mr. Fostkr. 

Wakefield, (a decayed Farmer, . Mr. Elliott. 

Chas. Maydew, (a Young Farmer,) Mr. S* Smith. 

Luke the Labourer, . . . Mr. Terry. 

Philip, (a Sailor,) .... Mr. T. Cooke. 

Bobby Trot, (a Country Lad,) . Mr. Salter. 

Michael, (an Old Gipsy, . : Mr. Sanders. 

Dick, (a Postilion,) . . . Mr. Lamert. 

Thomas, (Landlord of the King's 7 j^^, Phillips. 
Head,) 5 

Villagers, Servants, Gipsies, &c. 

Dame Wakefield, . . Mrs. Daley. 

Clara, (her Daughter,) . Miss Bodkn. 
Jenny, (a Country Girl.) . Mrs. H. Hughes. 

SCEJ^E.—A Village iu Yorkshire. 



STAGE DIRECTIOISS. 



By R. H. 


is meant Right Hand. 


By L. H. 


- 


- Left Hand. 


By S. E. 


. 


Second Entrance. 


By U. E. 


- 


Upper Entrance. 


By C. D. 


.- 


- Cottage Door, 



//rf^f? 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 



ACT I, 



SCENE I — A Village ivitli distant view of the City 
of York. — Harvest-carts i?i the back-ground ; a 
Group, of Villagers discovered, celebrating the 
Harvest home. — dn Alehouse at the side, and 
Luke seated at the door, smoking and disregard' 
ing their actions. 

CHORUS. 

Our last load of corn is now in, boys, 
'Tis time that our mirtli should begin, boys : 
For grief would be worse than a sin, boys, 
At this our harvest home. 

Our labours have now a relief, boys, 
So there's bacon and cabbage, and beef, boys. 
But a barrel of ale is the cliief, boys, 
To rule o'er a harvest i.ome. 

Enter Charles. 
Char. This is all as it should be, my lads; every 
thing is prepared for you in my cottage ; but, as I 
am a bachelor, you must elect the prettiest lass a- 
mong you to preside ; so away with you, and be as 
happy as you ought. 

[77ze villagers go off, singing the burden of the 
chorus : enter Clara, hastily y R. H.; on/ierceiV' 
ing Charles, she stops. 
You appear to be travelling post haste, Clara. I was 
in hopes we should have had you with us at our har- 
vest home ; your absence has disappointed many 
who have been expecting you anxiously 



4 LUKE THE LAROUWEIl. 

Clara. I have to attend to duties, Sir, which should 
be considered before pleasures, however I might 
wish to induls^e in them. 

Char. Sir! — You speak very coolly to me Clara; 
have I not known you long enough to be called 
Charles? 

Clara. Superiors should have that distinction, Char 
Sir. 

Char. Superiors, Clara! — But I see how it is, you 
are rather ironical to day. 

Clara. Nay, sir, indeed I did not mean to — to — 
say any thing. Sir; but you are now growing rich, 
and I hear, likely to become our landlord — so I 
thought — I thought — nothing more, indeed. Sir. 

Char. Be assured, Clara, it is not through pride 
that I have offered to purcliasc your father's cot- 
tage of 'Squire Chase : 'tis true, I wish so to do, but 
I have my reasons for it; and, though I have been 
so fortunate as to raise myself from a poor Farmer's 
boy to what I now am, I shall never forget that the 
first week's wages I earned, were paid me by Far- 
mer Wakefield. 

Clara. Ah, Sir, my poor father has been sadly 
unfortunate since that time : it is a bitter thing for 
an old man to meet misfortunes, when he has known 
prosperity in his youth ; but I am now old enough 
to assist, and it must be something worse than sick- 
ness that shall prevent my striving to bring comfort 
to that heart which administered to mine in its 
helplessnt^ss. 

Char. You are a good girl Clara ; I always said 
you were. But how is my old master. Farmer 
Wakefield."* I have not seen him for some weeks. 

Clara. {Dtjecttdlij,) He is very well. Sir. 

Char. Tell him to call on me this evening, and 
take a jug of ale to the memory of old times. 

Clara. He has not been out for some time, Sir. 

Char. Indeed — not ill, I hope, 

Clara. Only in mind, Sir. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 5 

Char. But he should take some exercise ; it would 
assist in driving away thought. Why don't he join 
us now in the evcninjj:, as he used to do :* 

Clara. Oh, Sir — {bm sting into tears.) — don't, don't 
ask me. 

[Luke rises and comes forward. Clara, crosses 
L. H. on Jierceiving him utters a faint shriek. 

Luke. Eh wench, what's the matter wi' ye ; there 
be naught about me, I hope to scare you so. 

Clara. There is that about you, enough to scare any 
one, could they but see it. 

Luke. What be that ? 

Clara. A bad heart. 

Luke. A bad heart. — It an't a bad heart; but a 
heart that has been stung through and through. 

Char. What is the meaning of this — what have 
you done, Luke, to cause this alarm ? 

Luke. Why, you see her feyther owed me a bit o* 
money, and when I wanted it, he woaldn't pay it, 
and so I thought — 

Char. You'd put him in gaol for it, eh ? 

Luke. If you'd ha' been a witch, you could not 
ha' guessed better. 

Char. (Jside.) It is as I suspected — but why didn't 
you tell me of this belore, Clara. ? 

Clara. I couldn't, sir ; I often thought of telling 
you, but when the words came to my tongue's end, 
I felt as if 1 could die, and had no power to speak 
them. 

Char. How much is the debt ? 

Clara. Oh, sir, a very great sum. 

Char. Indeed ! I'm sorry for that 

Luke. {Jside.) Yes and that's all youUl do, 
^ Char. But tell me the amount; 

Clara. Nineteen pounds, sir, 

Luke. Nineteen pounds, six shillings. 

Char. Well, Luke, you need not be so exact. 

Luke. Some folk ha' been exact enough with me, 
before this time, and now it be my turn ; I've had 



6 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

measters to teach me, and I'll show that I've larned 
my lesson. 

Char. Luke, I know you to be a needy man — How 
could Farmer Wakefield become your debtor in 
that sum ? 

Luke. Why — for vally received. 

Char. In what ? 

Luke. Why, for a stack o* wheat. Ah, you may 
stare — poor Luke, who never owned an acre, meas- 
ter of a stack o' wheat — you see some folk can get 
as well as other folk. 

Char. Well, well— 

Luke. Yes, it would ha'been well for me if I hadn't 
sold it to a beggar. 

Char. Whati* — Remember, Luke, the misfortunes 
of a ruined man are not to be insulted. 

Luke. Aye, we be all ruin'd in turn — I ha'been 
ruin'd — goods — body — character — all ruin'd. But 
now I can hold my head as high as you, Measter 
Charles, and defy you to say as I ever wrong'd my 
neighbour. 

Char. It is the luck of some men to have good 
friends. 

Luke. Aye, aye — you be right. 

Char. And sometimes for bad purposes. 

Luke. What ! — dom thee, I — no, Til not be in a 
passion now — another time — yes, another time. 
{crosses l. h. a shot heard without.) Here comes 
Squire, — he be at work among the patridges already. 

Clara. The 'Squire i>— Good day to ye, Mr. 
Charles. {Crossing-.) 

Char. Nay, Clara, do not go yet ; I wish to speak 
with you alone. 

Enter 'Squire Chase and Gamekeeper, r. h. 

Luke. A dutiful good day to ye, 'Squire — you ha' 
just bagg'd summut, I suppose ? 

* Squire Ha I the pride of the village here ! the 
very lass I wish'dto meet— and Mr. Charles, too— 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 7 

glad to see you, my honest fellow, {Charles slightly 
bows.) Well, Clara, and how is your father? 
Clara. He's very — that is, but poorly, sir. 

* Squire. Come hither Clara ; let me speak to you 
alone. {The rest retire.) Your lather is in difficulties, 
1 understand. 

Clara. He is, indeed, sir. 

^Squire. I'm sorry; but if you will come to the 
manor house, this evening, I shall be at leisure and 
will give you my assistance and advice. 

Clara. Ay, sir! assistance and advice have long 
been needed, 

* Squire. Keep up your spirits, Clara, and fail not 
to come. 

Clara. At what time, sir? 

^Squire. About half-past eight, or nine — say nine. 

Clara. It will be dark before I can return ; and I 
am very timid since I saw my father taken to — can't 
you make it earlier, sir ; 

'Squire. Not very conveniently ; but a servant 
shall see you safe home. Luke ? 

Luke. Here, 'Squire, {Coming down.) 

'Squire. Follow me 1 want you, {Aside.) You'll 
not fail ? {To Clara, crosses l. h. 

Clara. No. sir, and thank you. 

'Squire. I shall expect you : and, depend upon it, 
nothing that can be done to alleviate your distress, 
shall be wanting. At nine o'clock. 

Clara. I shall be punctual, sir. 

'Squire. Now, Luke, we shall accomplish it. 
f Aside. J 

[jEr/r. L. H. followed by Luke and Gamekeepkr. 

Clara. The 'Squire's freedom with that man is 
very strange. 

Char. [Coming forward r.h.] Clara, I — that is — I 
hope — do not think me too curious if I ask you a 
question. 

Clara. No, indeed, Charles. 



S LUKB THE LABOUKEIt. 

Char. Will you answer me ? 

Clara. If I can, sir. 

Char. What was it the 'Squire said to you ? 

Clara. He wishes me to go this eveningjtp the 
manor house. 

Char. For what purpose ? 

Clara. He has promised to assist my father in his 
difficulties. 

Char. Then he has only fir omisecl you ? 

Clara. That is all, Sir. 

Char. Take my advice, Clara, and don't go. 

Clara. Why should I not ? 

Char. Umph ! — Here is a pocket bock that I have 
no particular use for; and, as I know you are fond 
of reading, and making memorandums, will you ac- 
cept it. 

Clara. Nay Charles, I do not wish to — 

Char, But as a keep-sake. 

Clara. You are very kind. ( Taking the book tU 
midly.J 

Char. When I am gone, open it ; it contains no- 
thing but what you are freely welcome to: I know 
its contents — all is yours ; and I am convinced your 
own heart will tell you, better than I can, how to 
dispose of it. 

Clara. Nay Charles, \^[Offering to return it.] 

Char. I Insist upon it. {Exit. L. H. 

Clara. What can he mean ? The contents are 
mine. No, Charles, I guess your object; how ! gone : 
yet he insisted on my acceptance of it, and I was not 
to open it till he had left me — how my hand trembles. 
\_0/iens the book.] There's rtothinghere — no — only 
some poetry, "how to dye green" lEeacling.] "Verses 
to Betsey Jones." March — April — May Ha ! pockets 
— papers in them — Bank notes ! One, two, three, 
four, five — another five — that's five and five is ten 
r-and ten's twenty. Twenty pounds ! Kind, gener- 
ous Charles ; yes, my heart indeed tells me how to 
dispose of it. But for me to be so mean as to take 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 9 

it ! No, I'll return it to him. But my father is in 
prison, and this would make him happy — what shall 
I do? I'll borrow it — I'll but borrow it, and I'll work 
night and day to get it together again. Oh my poor 
father! I'll fly immediately to the gaol, and will not 
return home, but with him. Falher, father, let me 
not speak till I rush into your arms and tell you, that 
your prison doors are open. 

lE.xit R. R. 

Enter Bobby TR0TT,«m^m5>', luith a bundle on a stick 
at his back y l. h. u. E. 

Bob. Well, here I be, once more, ready to start 
for Lunnun : this makes the fourth time as I've had 
my Sunday clothes on, and my bundle at my back, 
when somehow summut have always happened to 
make I turn whoame again; but now I wool go, come 
what may. All's snug about, nobody have seen me, 
and I ha' gotten three half crowns, two silver six- 
pences, and half a penny in copper, to pay my way 
there, which be IST miles; and, as to coming back 
again, that must take care of itself. Perhaps I may 
never come back ; who knows but some grand lady, 
wi' a couch and a blackamoor servant, may say, 
Bobby thee be'st a pretty lad, wool't come and be 
my husband ? He, he, there be noa telling ; for I be 
told there be wonderfuUer things come aboot in 
Lunnun than in any other town out o' Yorkshire. So 
here goes ; once more. 

Enter Luke, hastily^ with a letter, l. h. 

Luke. Bobby, lad come hither ; I want thee. 

Bob. Eh ^ Oh! . 

Luke. The work ha' now begun, and this will com- 
plete it. [Jside.] I ha' been looken for thee, Bobby. 

Bob. Dang it, I shall be stop'd again— I be go- 
ing, mun. 

Luke. Going — where? 

Bob. Lunnun, sure. 

Luke. Why, what "be'st thee going there for ? 



10 LUICR THE LABOURER. 

Bob. Ob, summut. 

Luke. Nonsense ; I've a job for thee to do. 

Boh. I thought so. It be vary cruel, so it be, that a 
poor lad canna run away when he ha legs o' his ov^n, 
without being beholden to any body. 

Luke. What ha' put going to Lunnun in your 
head } Why, a lad like you will be ruined and killed 
in such a place. 

Bob. Eh ! How ? 

Luke* Why, there be so many wenches and temp- 
tations loike. 

Bob. Noa, be there tho' ^ Dom if I doa'nt go. 
(Aside. J 

Luke. How much money has't got.-^ 

Bob. Oh, a power ! Three half-crowns, two silver 
sixpences, and a penny halfpenny in copper. I sav'd 
it all up in a flower-pot. 

Luke. Be that all. Come, lad, listen to me ; you 
know Measter Charles. 

Bob. What, young Farmer Charles ? 

Luke. Yes^you go look for him, and give him 
this letter. 

Bob. Vary well. 

Luke. You know Ripley, twenty miles oft, where 
his brother James do live. 

Bob. Ees, I do. 

Luke. Doa'nt you tell him I gave you this letter, 
but say you be just come from Ripley, and brought 
it from his brother there, who be vary ill and like 
to die. 

Boh. I don'nt know as I wool. 

Luke. Why not? 

Bob. Because it be natural the letter should be 
post paid. 

Luke. Thee be'st a bit cutish, Bobby. 

Bob. I be getting cuterer every day, do you know. 

Luke. Well, well, thee shall go to Lunnun, if this 
job be done cleverly; so, when you ha' found un, 
come to me, and you shall be paid double postage. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. U 

Bob. Shall I tho'! But where shall I find ye, Meas- 
ter Luke, 'cause I be determined to go to day, if I 
start at night ; shall you be at this Alehouse ? 

Luke. Alehouse— noa — at the 'Squire's 

Bob. What, wi' the sarvants in the kitchen ? 

Luke. Sarvants — pish ! wi' his worship up stairs. 

Bob. You doa'nt say so — what, be you hired to sit 
up stairs wi' his worship? 

Luke. Don't ask questions, but nund your busi- 
ness. Eh — somebody be coming — it be he for sartin 
— now, lad, mind thy P's and Q's and you're a made 
man ! Exit. l. h. u. e. 

Bob, Wi' his worship up stairs! Oh I'll go to 
Lunnun now, for sartin ; if a great ugly chap loike 
Measter Luke do keep company wi' 'squires, what 
shall a smart lad loike I do, when I get among lords 
and dukes. 

Enter Charles, l. h. 
Sarvant, Measter Charles. 

Char. Well, Bobby, what news ! 

Bob. Very bad, zur — I ha' gotten a letter. 

Char. For me .-* 

Bob. Ees, zur. 

Char. Who sent you with it .'' 

Bob. Somebody. 

Char. (Reading.) "Dear Brother. This comes 
hoping you are in good health, which I be not at 
present. I be verry ill and doctor say I be dying. 
Dear brother, do come without fail, when you get 
this letter from your loving brother till death. 

"James Maydew." 
"Postcrip — A neighbour ha' wrote this, I be so bad." 
Poor fellow — have you just come from there Bobby } 

Bob. Here be my bundle you see. 

Char. Did you see my brother .'* 

Bob. Noa. 

Char. Who gave you this } 



12 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Bob. A mon. 

Char. My brother's man, I suppose. 

Bob. He — he — wasn't a woman. 

Char. What's to be done ? I wish'd to have seen 
Clara this evening, but this certainly demands the 
first attention. Here Bobby, here's sixpence for 
you : and shoald you see Farmer Wakefield's daugh- 
ter, tell her what happened, but say I shall return 
early in the morning, if possible, and call at her 
father's in my way home. \_Exit. l. h. 

Bob. Oh sly! I see how things do stand — if Meas- 
ter Charles bea'nt her sweetheart, T know nowt o' 
the matter. Well, I think that job were done quite 
neatish and clever, and without a bit o' lie ony way. 
Oh, I be a main cute lad, and if Lunnun doan't make 
my fortin, she doan't know how to vally a genus. 
Jenny is heard without crying- violently ^ 

My stars ! here be a stoppage now for sartin — I'd 
better run for it. 

Enter Jenny, l. h. ; u. e ; she runs ufi to Bobby, and 
catches him by the collar. 

Jen. I've cotch'd you at last, have I now, — bean't 
you a sad parjury fause lovier.'* and you be resolute 
bent on going away ? 

Bob. Ees, I be. Here's a rumpus. 

Jen. Havn't you said, over and over again, that I 
were the girl of your heart; and, if ever you had a 
wife, nobody but I should be Mistress Trot. 

Bob. Ees, but I said z/, you know; moint that. 

Jen. Then what did you make me fall in love for. 

Bob. That be no fault o' mine ; you couldn't help 
it. 

Jen. Then you don't care about breaking my heart, 
I suppose? But harkye, Bobby — if. you go to Lun- 
nun, I'll follow you, if I walk every step o' th' way 
barefoot. 

Bob. Now, don't ye be a fool, Jenny. 

Jen. You shan't make one o'me, I can tell ye, Bob- 
by. 



LUKE THK LABOURER. IS 

Ten. You make one o' yourself — I be only going to 
see the curio?itys ; I shall come back, mun. 

Jen. But I be so afraid o' thee ; for, when a young 
man gets there fra' the country as knows sunimut, 
he'll never get away again till he knows sumraut 
more than that summut. 

Bob. You dnan't say so. Dom if I doan't go. 
C Aside.) Now, Jenny, listen to me ; it be no use your 
taking on so. I've told you, oftens and often, I was 
determined to see Lunnnn some day, so hadn't I bet- 
ter go now I be a single man and you single 'oman, 
than walk away some time when you ha' gotten a 
dozen young 'uns : besides, what I see; I can tell you 
all about, and then you'll be as svise as me every bit. 

Jen. That will na' bt-tter me, Bobby ; for most 
things that are larn'd in Lunnun had better never be 
know'd at all. 

Bob, But, bless ye, I needn't know more than wad 
be proper. 

Jen. But you would not rest there, Bobby ; if you 
get to know a little, you'll never be quiet till you 
know every thing. Now, I tell thee what, Bobby, — 
if thee woan't go, you shall come to my mother's 
and have as much cold pudding for supper as ever 
you can eat. 

Bob, You don't keep pudding cold, do ye .^ 

Jcn„. Oh, plenty. 

Bob. Well now, I never do. 

Jen. Why, thee deosn't throw 't away? 

Bob. No — I eat it all, when it be hot. 

Jen. But woan'nt you come, Bobby? {Coaxing 
him.) 

Bob. He ! he ! he ! I—I think I wool. 

Jen. ( Pulling him along gently, j Come. 

Bob. He ! he ! he ! you know how to do't. 

Jen. (Chucking him under the chin. ) I know you 
wool, Bobby. 

Bob. He ! he ! he ! I'll be shot if Lunnun tempta- 
tion be ony thing to this. 



14 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

DUET,— Jir,'' Le Sadotiei-e:' 

Lunnun's curiosities tennjjt me away, — 
Fgrtuiie may smile, and pay well for the trip. 
Jenny- 

Nay, Bobby, pray let me persuade thee tostaj', 
I'ljere's maniiy a slip 'twixt the can and the Up. 

BOBBT. 

Talents awd persons be sure o' promotion, 
So that, you see, I've two strings to my bow. 
Jexny. 

The proverb do say, *' twixt too stools," I've a notion, 
Plump on the ground you will sartainly go : 

IJoBIlT. 

Odds ! bobbs ! both be so 'tising 
Lunnun and Jtnny — I cant get away. 

Jenxt. 
You look like the donkey who stood, over nice, in 
Choosing between two fine bundles o' hay, 

Fal, lal,lal,&c 

SECOND VERSE. 
BoDiir. 
Your coaxing and wheedling I cannot resist. 
And the thought o' cold pudding do alter my plan. 

Jknny. 
Why, Bobby, I know you've a notion to twist, 
And a rare gaping mouth for a sop in the pan. 

Bobby. 
Ah ! Jenny, my roaming ambition 
Be melting to love, just like kitchen fat. 

Jenny. 
If you be so \iarm wi' your loving condition, 
A lump of cold pudding will soon settle that. 



* For the words of this duet, the author is indebted to Mr^. 
Salter. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 15 

Less ! feg;s I to Lunnuii shouM carrj' me. 
Where 1 be sure to ijet hmss in my purse. 

Jf.xxy. 
Yon don't want for brass in your face, — stay and marry me ; 
Furtlier you'll travel, and, maybe, fare worse. 

Fal, lal, lal ! he. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE U—^ Kitchen. 

Jointer Da3IE Wakefikld, filacing the chairs and 

tabic. 

Dame. Where can ray poor girl be .^ I be sore 
afraid when she do stay so long away ; a fair flower 
hazards the plucking of every hand, and she ha' now 
no jjrotector but her old mother : my poor husband 
in prison, and the young hope of our days fled from 
us when he wur but ten years old! But that grief I 
can never speak of to my husband, it do almost turn 
his brain, — but many and many a night ha' found me 
waking and thinking what ha' been his fate. Hey, 
bless me, this is a sad world for the helpless and un- 
friended ! 

Clar. {fpihout.) Mother! iviothet ! 

Dame. My child's voice, — bless us, what can be 
the matter .-• 
IMusic. She opens the door and Clara rushes m. 

Clar. He's coming! He's coming. 
Dame. Who, child .•* 
Clar. My father! 

{Music. Farmer Wakefikld enters, and rushes 
into his ivife^s arms. 

Hake, {differ a fiause.) My warm, my comfortable 
fireside, do I again see thee. Oh, dame, dame ! no 
man truly knows the blessings of his home but he 
who has been shut out from it. 

Dame. George! — I've look'd for this day, but ne- 
ver expected to see it, I've dream'd of it but the 



16 LUKE THE LA130UREU. 

morning always found your chair vacant ; bjt now 
sit down George. 

Clara Sit, father, sit. How pale and changed you 
look,— shall I get you any thing, father? 

Wake. Not yet, child — not yet. 

Dame. But who ha^ done this.-* 

Clar. A friend mother. 

Wake, He is, indeed a friend. 

Dame. Bless us, what a friend } 

Clar. Charles. 

Dame. What, Charles Maydew ? 

Ciar. He drew from me what I n';:ver inten'led 
should be known but where it could not be avoided : 
he asked me questions, many questions, many ques- 
tions, and put them so kindly, that they seemed to 
charm an answer from me ; and when I at length 
confess'd our distress, he gave me a j)Ocket-book,told 
me the contents were mine, and my own heart would 
direct me what to do. 

Wake. Grateful boy, — if ever it be in my power to 
return thy kindness, — but what are hopes to me — 
am 1 not ruin'd t — No farm, no land ! Blight, distem- 
per, and misfortune, have swept all away, and I am 
now a bereft and comfortless old man. 

Clar. Father, I hope you have one comfort left. 
{Emhracinf^ him xuUh affection.) 

li'ake. Bless thee girl, bless tiiee, — I wrong'd thee 
in saying fco, thou art indeed a blessing, and, if any 
thing should tear thee from me, there then remains but 
one thing to be done. [J knock at the cottage door.l 

Hake. ('Starting,) Who's there ? 

Clar. Nay. father, don't stir; sit still, sit quiet, — 
I'll open the door, — it's nobody ot consequence; some 
friend, perhaps. 

Dame. Mayhap, Mr. Charles. 
Music. — Clara ofiens the door cautiouhly — Luke 

ivalka in., but stofi^ suddenly on fierceiving Wakk- 

FIKLD, and remains fixed ivith Hurfirise. — Clara 

cornea down, Wakkfikld, atill keejin hin Healyiuhile 

the Damk views him with anxiety. 



LUKE THE LAI30UkER. 17 

Ifake. Well, sir, your business here ? 

Luke. I ha' noa business particular, I ha' noa — 
only a— how came you out o'gaol ? 

Make. That be no affair o' yours; the keeper of the 
prison will answer that. 

Luke. Well, well, — I suppose it be all right; but 
— who'd ha' thought it, — you arn't paid t' money? 

Make. It be paid ; and now your business. 

Luke. Why, you see I be com'd fra' 'Squire — he 
heard you were misfortunate, and wish'd your daugh- 
ter to come to him, when he were at whome this 
evening, and consult wi' him upon the business. 

Clara. Yes, father, he saw me this afternoon, and 
desired me to go to the manor house this evening. 

Make. The 'Squire be very good certainly ; but it 
be all settled now, and things may take a better turn 
wi* me. 

Luke. ^^ ell, I hope they may ; but. Miss Clara, 
as t' 'Squire said he would do summut for thee, may- 
hap it would be better for you to see him — he be 
very civil, and who knows but he may set thy feyther 
on his legs. 

Make. I should think it be of little consequence 
to you whether I stand or fall. 

Luke. Oh, I only speak out o'pity. 

]Vake. Curse your pity ! 

Luke. Nay, not so ; I be a friend o'the family, 
bless you — I bear no malice. No, no — malice, noa 
malice ! 

Make Then why be so hard upon me, when I 
couldn't pay you at the time promised. 

Luke. Why, you see I wanted t' money, and I 
thought, as you had been a thriving man, you might 
ha' some about thee that you didn't just like to touch, 
you see. 

Make. fRise.J And why did you tempt me to 
buy it, wi' your false words of "any time would do 
do to pay .'"' But I see through you — you be a scoun- 
drel ! 



18 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Luke. What ? Be quiet ! be quiet ! 

Clara. ( Crossing to Wakefield. J Nay, father — 
dear father, say no more. Luke, go, leave the house ;. 
my father is passionate, and he may say that which, 
at another time he would be sorry for. 

Luke. I ha' summut to say, summut at my tongue's, 
end — it must come out. Farmer do you recollect 
when you sent me away fra' your sarvice } Do you 
recollect when I were starving for want o' work,, 
and, because I were at times given to drink, you 
turn'd your back upon me. I ha' never been a man, 
since that time. 

Wake. What, do you wish to rake up old affairs, 
that ha' been gone by mony a day ? 

Luke. If it had been gone by a hundred years, and 
I alive, I should never ha' forgotten it ; and I must and 
will tell thee on't. I never had the chance afore ; but 
now it do all come fresh opon my brain, my heart do 
seem ready to burst wi' summut buried in it, and I 
cannot keep it down. You turn'd me away, and I 
had no character, because you said I were a drunk- 
ard. I were out of work week after week till I had 
not a penny in the world, nor a bito'bread to put in 
mine or my wife's mouth. I then had a wife, but 
she sicken'd and died — yes, died — all — ail — along o* 
you. 

Wake. You never came to me in a right way. 

Luke. She vvouldn't let me go to parish, because 
she were daughter of as good a man as you were 
then; so we crept on little by little, and bad 
enough it were — but at last all things went cross :. 
and at one time, when a bit hadn't been in my 
mouth for two days, I sat thinking, wi' my wife 
in my arms ; she were ill, very ill ; I saw her 
look at me wi' such a look as I shall never forget — 
she laid hold o' this hand, and putting her long thin 
fingers all round it, said *' Luke, would na' the far- 
mer give you six-pence if he thought I were dying 
q' want ?" I said, I'd try once more — I got up, to put 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 19 

her in a chair, when she fell, stone dead down at my 

feet. 

Clara. Oh, Luke! Luke! for mercy's sake, no 
more — forgive him. 

Luke. (After a fiause.) I were then quite ruin'd. 
I felt alone in the world. I stood looking on her 
white face near an hour, and did not move from the 
spot an inch ; but, when I did move, it were wi* my 
fist clench'd in the air, while my tongue, all parch'd 
and dry, curs'd a curse, and swore that, if I had not 
my revenge, I wish'd I might fall as stiff and as 
dead, as she that lay before me. 

Clara, Oh, Luke ! I beseech you — I implore you 
— forgive my father. (Falling at I^uke^s feet.) 

l.uke. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this is a great sight — the 
daughter at my feet. 

ffake. Get up, Clara, I'll not see it — I'll not see 
thee beg to any man — obey me, girl. 

Luke. My eyes are wet — 'tis ten years and more 
since they were so — it were but a drop, and now 
they're dry as dust again. 

Wake. Tell me, Luke- -did you not bring all your 
troubles on yourself; did you not drink and swear, 
and be idle, for whole days t 

Luke. fJVot heeding. J I'll have it yet-— if I die 
for't, I'll have it. Yes, yes — you arn't the man you 
were once. You are not that Farmer Wakefield 
that stood almost as high ast' 'Squire; noa ! noal— 
Luke ha' seen that which has been bread to him. 

Wake. Villain, leave the house ! Don't you hold 
me, dame — he shan't bide in this place a moment — 
leave my house, I say. 

Luke. I arn't yet had my full o' what pleases me 
-—here's a little alteration here. 

Wake. Do you abuse nie on my own hearth ^ Now, 
Luke, heed me — if you don't instantly go out, I'll 
lay hold o' thee by the neck, and send you forth 
quicker than you came in. 
Luke, Touch me, and I'll — 



20 LUKE THE LAftOUtiER. 

Wake. Stand off, dame — Clara, be you quiel — let 

me come at him. 

l^Music. — Wakefield seizes Luke, but is grafifiled 
in return by the throat. — Luke dashes him on the 
g-round, and rushes out of the cottage, with a loud 
laugh— Clara screams, the Dame si7ik8 senseless 
in the chair, Clara is endeavouring to raise her 
Father, and the scene closes, 

SCENE IIL — in Afiartment at the 'Squire's. 
£nrfr Bobby, cautiously looking about him. 

Bob. Measter Luke ! Measter Luke ! — I can't 
find him any where. I popp'd up stairs so snug, 
when sarvant's back wur turned, because they do 
say he be often here wi' 'Squire ; if 1 could but find 
him, I'd ax for l' letter job money, and go ; for 
Jenny do so come over I wi' her lattle bits of love, 
and great bits of pudding, that it do quite puzzle I 
what to do. What a grand parlour surely — but this 
be naught to what I shall see in Lunnun — for the 
'Squire there be so big, they ha' built a large hall o' 
purpose for his corporation. Here be somebody 
coming !— Dickens and daisies, it is 'Squire him- 
self!— -He musn't see me, by gum — I shall meake 
such a clatter if I run down stairs ; here be a cup- 
board door open — I'll pop in here 'till he be gone — 
gently, Bobby — gently, {conceals himself in closet.) 
Enter 'Squire and Dick. 

^Sguier. How far can we get on the road without 
changing horses } 

Dick. Why, your honour, with four good cattle, 
we may run a matter o' twenty miles. 

'Squire. That will do; now attend to me — clap 
four of my best horses to the light chaise, and be at 
the Three Oaks, near the main road, by a quarter 
to nine. 

Dick. And spank along in the old way, your ho- 
nour? 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 21 

''Squire. As hard as you can go ; but make no noise 
in getting ready, and drive quietly to the place, 
■without saying a word &bout it to any body — keep 
the steps down and the door open. 

Dick. I know, sir, 

* Squire. And, understand — {Gives him money.) 

Dick. Oh, sir, perfectly — your honour intends to 
go to London, I suppose ? 

*Sq7iire.; Ask no questions, but obey me. 

Dick It shall be d'-ne ; any thing else, your ho- 
nour ? 

''Squire. Get your horses ready immediately. 

Dick. In the cracking of a whip, your honour. 

\^Exit^ R. H. 

'Squire. It may be necessary to make these pre- 
parations, for have the girl I will. She has given 
me a little trouble, certainly — perhaps more than I 
intended to take ; but a genuine man of gallantry 
should never flinch while there remains a chance of 
obtaining his object. 

Enter Luke, r. h. 

Luke. It be all out now — I've had it laying up 
here for mony a day, but it would burst out at last. 
I could ha' put my foot upon his neck had na' the 
woman screech'd so deadly; but I've given him 
earnest o' what's to come. 

''Squire. Why, Luke, you appear ruffled;— nothing 
wrong I hope } 

Duke. Eh ! — I didn't see your worship. Oh, no, 
bless ye — I've only been talking a bit o' my mind. 
Who do you think be out o' gaol .'' 

^Squire. Wakefield .'' 

Duke. Yes, sure. I know who's done it, 

'Squire. Charles, I suppose ."* 

Luke. Aye, sure ; but he ha' gone on his fool's 
errand — that be all correct. 

'Squire. Then my rival has swallowed the bait } 

Luke. Oh, yes, and is now on the road to Ripley. 



22 LUKE THE LABOUIIF.R. 

•' I never were so strong in all my life — I felt his 
throat in my fingers ; I could ha' done summut — I 
almost wish i had. 

" ^Scjuire. It's very unfortunate he should beJi- 
berated at this moment, for I've ordered the chaise 
to be in readiness, and intended to have had her on 
the road to London in two h.oui s hence. But what's 
the matter with you, Luke } You seem to be en- 
joying a comfortable reverie i 

''Luke. I'll tell > e, I knock'd at the door to tell 
her to come ex-act- to time, you see, and I wish I 
may die if t'old man was not sitting in his elbow 
chair. I thought in were a dream, man ; but there 
he sat, as grand as if he were going to pay me my 
ten shillings on a Saturday night. But I didn't bow 
and scrape to him, as I did formerly ; no, I were as 
grand as he ; he ask'd my business — I told him, and 
one word got to another; he grew angry, and I said 
summut as he didn't like. lie were going to turn 
me out like a dog; but no ; — I cotch'd him by the 
throat, and dashed him dovvn wi' all my might and 
main, and set up a shout as made the very place ring 
again. But don't you fret, sir, you shall ha' the girl 
in spite o' Measter Charles — I'll do it — I've got 
heart enough — I'll do it. 

^w^cr Servant, R H. 

Serv. Farmer Wakefield has seat to speak with 
you, sir. 

'Squire. Sent ! whom ? 

Serv. His daughter, sir 

'Squire. Desire her to come up. \_Exit Sn^ant, 

Luke. Hush, hush, — it be all right yet — I know 
what she be come for. 

'Squire. The puss breaks cover. Away, lad, take 
the back stairs, and be at your station ; it is getting 
dark, and we shall run her down a^ she returns 
home. Keep your scent good, my lad, and you'll be 
the best hound in my pack, {Exit I^uke. l. h.) 
Here she comes. 



LUKE THE LABOURED. 23 

Enter Clara. 
Well, Clara, you ccme to your time, like a good 
■woman of business — sit down. 

Clara, I'd rather stand, if you please, sir. 

'Squire. Well, as you please : but don't be timid, 
come nearer to me ; have ycu seen your father to- 
day .•* 

Clara. Yes, sir. 

* Squire. And how is he ^ 

Clara. Better than he has been for many a day. 
He's at home, sir. 

* Squire. At Home! 

Clara. Yes, sir : a good friend has done what you 
were thinking about, sir, 

'Squire. That's a home thrust, however. (Aside.) 
Oh, I understand ; well, I'm rejoiced to hear it ; I 
hoped I should have had that pleasure. 

Clara. But you can do as good an action sir; if 
not to serve my father, at least to — to please me, sir, 

'Squire. Indeed, believe me, Clara, I would rather 
•have that office than the former. 

Clara. My father did not wish me to come, but I 
am disobedient for once. I should not have slept if I 
had not. That villain, sir, Luke has insulted my fa- 
ther, shamefully insulted him ! 

'Squire. Indeed, insulted him ! 

C/ara. Struck him. Sir ; struck an old man to the 
ground, whose grey hairs alone should have been 
his protection ; and I come to you, 'Squire Chase, 
as lord of the manor and magistrate, instantly to se- 
cure the ruffian, for my father's life is in danger 
Vrhile he is at liberty. 

'Squire. Where is Luke to be found .'' 

Clarv. It has been said that he is in your service. 

'Squire. In mine ; Oh, no, the steward, I believe 
employs him on the grounds. 

Clara. If you are inclined to serve the oppressed, 
sir, you will not let this matter rest ; pardon my 
boldness, sir, but my poor father is a ruined and a 



24 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

broken man, with no one to stand up for him but his 
daughter. 

^Squire. Well, I — that is, my dear girl — my dear 
Glara— 

Clara. Sir ! 

* Squire. Damn it— I hav'nt a word to say for my- 
self. (Aside.) You have it in your power to place 
yourself and your family above intsult frpm any one. 

Clara. I-— I do not understand. 

* Squire. There is one who takes more than com- 
mon interest in your situation ; one who has felt the 
expression of those eyes, and admired charms he is 
convinced were never intended to be obscured in a 
village. 

Clara. Sir, I — you amaze me — -frighten me — 
what is it you mean ^ 

^Squire. It is myself, Clara, that admires you, 
loves you. 

Clara. Do not forget yourself; unhand me, sir, or 
I will call for help. Let me depart. 

\^A loud crash is heard in the closet^ — the 'SquiKE 
starts amazed^ and Clara rushes out. The 
'Squire runs to the closet, and drags out Bobby, 
ivith a broken basin in his hand. 

Bob. Oh, your worship, I didn't mean to do it. 

''Squire. Who are you, sirrah ? 

Bob. 1 be Bobby Trot, Sir. 

'Squire. How came you in that closet ? 

Bob. I didn't go to steal any thing, zur — I wonted 
to speak to Mcaster Luke, zur — and I got in there 
zur ; and a great bason fell upon me, zur, without 
ony body touching it 

'Squire. How long have you been there. Sirrah ^ 

Bob. All the while you have been here, Sir. 

''Squire. He may have overheard what has been 
said ; but I'll secure him, whoever he is. {Still hold- 
ing him.) Have you heard what has passed in this 
room ^ 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 25 

Bob. He, he, — you be going to Lunnun in a chay. 
* Squire. That's quite enough, {Holding him.) Here 
Thomas! William! James! (Calling-.) 
Bob. Oh, zur, 1 be innocent ; indeed I be ! 
Enter Servants, e. h. 

^Squire. This fellow has been concealed in my 
closet, no doubt with an intention to rob the house ; 
take him to the constable, and lock him up in the 
cage till morning. 

Bob. Oh, zur doan't — I'll never do so ony more. 

''Squire. Away with him instantly ! 

Bob. I be innocent, indeed I be. — Oh, dear, this 
be a stoppage — I shall never go to Lunnun. 

lExigf dragged by servants, l. h. 

^Squire. That booby might have destroyed my 
plan, but Luke must see after him ; he is, no doubt, 
at his post. The sky looks rather dark ; no storm 
coming, I hope. No matter — Jupiter enjoyed his 
Semele in a storm, and surely a poor mortal need 
not stand upon trifles. \^Exit. 

SCENE IV. A cut wood. Low thunder. 

Enter Philip through the centre^ with a large bun- 
dle^ and a cudgel. 

Phil, Holoa I Any body a-hoy. Nobody with in 
hail } I want a pilot here ; the wind has shifted four 
points, and brought the ebb tide slap on my broad- 
side ; shall drift out, I'm thinking, and lose my way. 
Let me see, here's a track of some sort ; I'll follow 
it, must reach port at last, {Lightning.) The clouds 
are preparing for action : splice my old shoes, but I 
must take care of my cargo. Now, messmates, 
keep you tight in my fist and, if a pirate dare board 
a king's ship, damme but we'll set her keel upwards 
and leave her to founder. Steady she goes ! 

[Exiit L. H. 
Enter Luke, cautiously^ r. h; 

Luke. I thought I heard summut. No, it be all 
right ; Dick ha' gotten the chay ready and t' lass 



26 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

be coming across t' other meadow. But where be 
'Squire? I suppose 1 must manage t'jobmysel. 
Who's there ? 

Enter 'Squire, through centre, r. h. 

^Squire. Luke ! 

Luke. Be that you 'Squire ? 

'^j'Mzre. She's coming, I've had a steeple chase 
to be up with you. 

Luke. All be ready, zur ! {Thunder.) Hush ! 
keep thee back. [They retire back. 

Enter Clara, r. h. 

Clara. If I can but get home before the storm in- 
creases ! That treacherous 'Squire ! — this is a sad 
world. {AJiash of lightning makes her start back^ 
Bless me what a flash ! I must put my hands before 
my eyes ; I was always afraid of the lightning ! 
[^ clafi of thunder ; music ; Luke rushes forward^ 
and seizes her in his arms : she screams^ and strug- 
gles with him ; the 'Squire is taking her from him^ 
nvhen Philip re-enters. Lightning. 
Phil. What ! a ship a-hoy ! Sheer off, there ! 
[//e knocks Luke down with his cudgel, who falb 
senseless : then grapfiling the 'Squire by the throat. 

felip your cable, my girl, and stand out to sea ! the 

lubbers shan't grapple you. 

[Clara exits, l. h. the Squire struggles with Fni- 

Lip, and runs off', pursued by him, r. h. The thun* 

der continues^ and the curtain falls 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 2? 

ACT II. 

SCENE I — The interior of a village alehouse 
Three Reafiers discovered sitting at a table, drink- 
ing ; another small table^ chairs^ ^c. 
GLEE. 

\ St Reaper. We three be farmer's lads, 

And yeomen every one, 

Pioughtail Thomas, 
Ind Reaper. Sickle James, 
2>rd Ji caper. And I be flail John, 
Is^ Reaper. I drive tlie plough, 
'ind Reaper. T reap the corn, 
3rd Reaper. And I thrash the sheaves, 

Till the wheat be gone. 
AIL We three be farmer's lads. 

And yeomen every one. 
1st Reaper. Ihomas loves cherry-cheek Kate o' the vale, 
^nd Reaper. James loves the lass with the milking pail, 
Srd Reaper. Flail John loves nothing but nut-brown ale. 
All We three be farmer's lads. 

And yeomen every one. 

Rnth Luke, e. h. ivith a handkerchief bound round 
his head ; crosses the stage, and sits at the table. 

1st Heap,. Fine morning, Master Luke. 
Luke. Yes, I see it be. 

\sL Reap. Capital weather for the squire to shoot, 
Tuke. Yes, dom him. {Half Jlside.) Thomas! 
(Calling.) I want a jug of ale. 

Enter Thomas. 

Thos. Jug of ale, Luke — what be the matter with 
your head ; 

Luke. It do ache, Thomas. 

Thos. What, too jolly at the harvesl-home, I reck- 
on ? I hear farmer Charles left all the lads to shift 
for themselves, and went over to Ripley. 

Luke. Did he .-* Doan't thee talk, Thomas, but 
tjring th'ale. {Exit Thomas. 



28 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

1st Reafi. You seem out of sorts. Master Luke. 

Luke. Be that my affair, o' j-ours ? 

1st Reafi. I only made a civil remark. 

Luke. V\ hen I be ill I'll let thee know. 
Enter Thomas, with ale^ R. h. 

Thos. Fine day, after the storm last night. 

Luke, Yes. {Sullenly.) 

Thos. Y^ou were not out in it, I suppose ^ 

Luke' No. {Quickly.) 

Thos. Some folks grow mighty grand in a little 
time. [Exit. R. h. 

Luke. Just as it were all right — ^just as I were in 
the very nick o' the job, to be stuned to the ground 
by a blow that came from nobody knows where ; 
and the 'Squire too, to run away, and leave me to 
get up as 1 could : and, when I came to myself, I 
could see nothing and hear nothing : but I could feel 
summut. Well, well — it ha* been twenty years 
about, and if it be twenty more, I'll have my ends at 
last. {Going to drink.) 

Phil. {Without.) Landlord ahoy! any body a 
board the king's Head } 

Luke. {Starting up, and drofifiing his jug.) That 
be the vary voice. 

Ist Reafi. Master Luke, you have spilt t' ale, man. 

Enter Philip, singing, r. h. 
What arguQes snivelling and piping jrour eye ? 
Why, what a damn'd fool you must be. 

[^Luke turns his chair^ and sits with his back to Phi' 
lift. 

Phil. All hands are asleep, I think— a messmate 
or two here I see — holloa ! {To the Reafiers.) What 
cheer, my hearties .•* 

Ist Reafi. We be verry well, hope you're the 
same. 

Phil. That's right, my boys — we shall soon know 
one another — here, landlord ! {Enter Thomas) 
Bring a good allowance of grog alongside, and hand 



lukp: the labourer. 29 

us something to stow in the bed-room. {Exit Tho- 
mas.) Well, my boys, how are you off for lasses in 
this port ^ 

1st Reafi. Very well for that matter; only if you 
are too sharp after the lasses, you must keep prepar- 
ed for the lads. 

Fhil. You're a bit of a weather beaten old hand, 
but you know how to use your speaking trumpet. 
I'm a stranger in this channel, you see, and want a 
little information ; is it the custom of the natives 
kere to overhaul a young woman whether she's will- 
ing or no } 

l&t Reafi. I don't know about that, without the 
lasses will say " no," when they mean " yes." 

Phil. Hark ye, my lad — I was steering into port 
last Eight, as well as the breakers a-head and con- 
trary winds would allow, and while tacking about, 
I heard the cry of a ship in distress, pip'd all hands, 
bore up to the spot, and found a tight little brig 
grappled by a couple of Algerines — all dark---not a 
lantern to be seen-— except the flash now and then 
from the great guns in the air- — ^^aw how it was — 
bove slap upon the enemy— tipp'd him a broadside 
— boarded him on his lee quarter---drubb'd him 
about his upper-works till his day lights danc'd again 
—fell to work yard-arm and yard-arm with t'other 
---he lower'd his top-sails, slipp'd under my stern, 
and got clear off— -gave chase, but lost him in the 
dark— hail'd the little brig, but found she had set 
all sheets to the wind, and put out to sea — gave three 
skips and a huzza for the victory- steer'd my course 
again, till I got safely harbour'd in the King's Head. 

1st Reafi. Have you been talking Greek all this 
time. 

Phil. Greek, you swab— but what's the use of 
talking the king's English to a Hottentot— harkye ! 

l*t Reap. Beg pardon, master sailor, it is our time 
for work again — you have done your's and you have 
plenty o' time to talk, but we have none to listen, 
( Going-.) 



30 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Phil. Avast now-— don't sheer off till I've ask'd a 
question or two. I shan't veer out much more jaw, 
as you've no gumption. Tip us a few of the farmers 
names in this port, 

IsL Reaper. Names ?— There be Farmer Jones, 
and Farmer Gosling, and Farmer Maydew and Far- 
mer Holly, and— there's no more. 

Phil. No more, you lubber! {Laying hold of the 
1st Pea/ier.) Tell me ther's no more, and I'll pitch 
you to Davy Jones in the twinkling of a handspike, 

1st JRea/i. Oh, yes, I'd forget— one more ; but 
he's no farmer now, 

Phil. His name, swab ; his name. 
1st Rca/i. His name is Wakefield. 
Phil. {Sinking on his seat.) Splice my old shoes- 
name sure enough — quite upsets me ; strike my 
topmast, the name sets my head singing like a tea- 
kettle on the galley fire. 

2nd Rea/i. Come, lad come ; he be drunk. 
Phil. Stay, my lads — bring to a bit — give me some 
account of him — no palavar on the word of a sailor ; 
he's no farmer now, you say ? overhawl his affairs, 
and let me know how he stands in the world. 

Is^ Reafi. If you want to learn the particulars ask 
him in the corner ; he can tell you more than I can. 

[Exeunt Reafiers r. h. 

l^Luke still sits with his back towards Philifi^ but^ 

during this scene^ has taken the handkerchief from 

his head. 

Phil. I havn't felt so queer since the Neptune's 
jolly boat upset with me in the Baltic. Ask him in 
the corner ; who's he, I wonder ; an exciseman, per- 
haps—service to you, mate. {Drinking to Luke. 

Luke, Same to you. 

Phil. Come, do'nt clap a stopper on your cable 
end, my friend — hoist your colours, and return the 
salute ; can you tell me of one Farmer Wakefield in 
these parts ? 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 31 

Luke. {Turning half round to Philip,) Do you 
want to know about him ? 

Phil. Come, come, lad — let's have no sour crout 
when we can drink flip. What though I am a stran- 
ger, this is one of the friendly islands, and if I've pat 
in some fresh water, you won't send me away with 
empty buckets. It's some time since I anchored in 
this channel, and then Farmer Wakefield was mas- 
ter of a tight bit of land or so, didn't spare the grog 
and biscuit, and could keep up a Saturday night like 
an admiral ; so you see, I should like to learn how 
the good soul thrives in the sea of life, 

Luke. Very poorly I can tell thee. 

Phil. Poor soul. 

Luke. He's been many a day growing poor, and 
now ha' gotten quite down ; bad crops, distemper 
among the cattle, bad debts, misfortune, and rack 
and ruin more and more every day. I ha' seen it; I 
ha' seen it. ( With self satisfaction. ) 

Phil. Well, thank heaven, he's alive. 

Luke. Oh, yes, he do live. 

Phil. And his wife .-* 

Luke. Yes. 

Phil. And — and his children ? 

Luke. Yes ? that is, he had two, you see, but now 
he ha' gotten but one. 

Phil. That's a girl. 

Luke. Yes ; t'oiher were a boy. 

Phil. He's dead, 1 suppose. 

J^uke. Very like — very like. 

Phil. You don't know for certain. 

Luke. Why, you see he were a lost a long time 
ago; kidnapped away, it be tho't, by gipsies. 

Phil. True — true, I recollect now. 

Luke. You be too young to recollect the boy. 

Phil. Yes, yes, and the old farmer is very poor? 

Luke. Deadly poor, indeed. 

Phil. I'm glad of it — I'm glad of it. 

Luke. (Rising eagerly, and looking earnestly at 
Philifi.) No, be you tho' ? 



33 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Phil. Holloa, brother, you've a smart bump on 
your forecastle. 

Luke. (Confused.) Have I ? Oh yes— I know, I 
I know. 

Phil. Where did you get it ? 
Luke. Get it ; why I ha' gotten it on my head, 
you see. 

Phil. I think I know you. {Signijicantly .) 
Luke. What ? know me. 
Phil. Are you fond of young women ? 
Luke. (Endeavouring to laugh ) Mayhap I be. 
Phil. Did you get that blow last night ? 
Luke. No — no — not last night. 
Phil. You lie. 
Luke. What.^ 

Phil. {^Seizing him.) You v/ere grappling with a 
young woman last night ; you and another. 

Luke. If thee doesn't loose th' grip, I'll dash thy 
brains out. 

Phil. I see how the land lies ; here, landlord, 
you've got among the breakers, — Landlord. (Call- 
ing,) All hands ahoy ! 

Enter Thomas and Charles, l. h. 
7%os. What's the matter? 

Phil. I'll fathom it to the bottom. I've got you 
in tow, and splice my old shoes if you go till I'm 
satisfied. 

Char. Luke, what is the cause of this ? 
Phil. Your honour, I sav'd a young woman from 
being ill treated last night, and I could swear this is one 
of the crew that had his grappling irons aboard of her. 
Char. Where was the place } 

Phil. J don't know, your honour. 1 was steering 
without rudder or compass, and had lost my vvay, 
but it was in some woody place leading out of a 
meadow. 

Char. It is as Clara suspected ;-^you did save a 
young woman last night my friend. Hark ye Luke, 
i have heard of your conduct, and be assured that 



LURE THE LABOURER. S3 

proper authorities shall interfere; if justice cannot 
be procured here, there are means to obtain it else- 
where. 

Phil. What, we've caught a mutineer, eh ? Beg 
your pardon, your honour, is the young woman your 
wife ? 

Char. No — no, not my wife ; she is Farmer Wake- 
field's daughter. 

Phil. Shiver my topmast. Say it again your hon- 
our. 

Char. I repeat it. 

Phil. Handspikes and buntlines, but I'll know 
who you are. (Seizes Luke with both hands, who 
trembles violently.) I value not your looks a rope's 
end. (Drags him to the front of the stage a?id looks 
at hijn earnestly.) It is — no it an't : Snatch my bow- 
lines, but it is. Hark ye, I think I've seen your ugly 
mug before ; if it's the same you'll go to the devil 
with a flowing sail, I can tell you ; you are set a drift 
now, but when I grapple you again, I'll send such a 
broadside into you, as shall sink you in a jiffy. No- 
ble captain, steer me to Farmer Wakefield's and you 
shall swim in grog for a month. 

Char. I am returning there this instant. 

Phil. Say you : not a word more, on your life — 
heave a head, landlord, and pitch my cargo out of 
the hold. Now your honour, seize the rudder — wind 
and weather all right. Clap on all your canvass — 
leave this half-timber'd pirate to founder as he will, 
and spanic away to the Farmer's. 
{Exeunt Phil, followed by Charles and Thomas r. h. 

f Luke remains _ fixed with astonishment y mingled 
with fear.) 

Luke. Summut do pass to and fro upon my brain; 
but no, it cannot be, it cannot be — he were fair 
hair'd, and beside, it be twenty years ago, and no- 
thing ever heard— I'll not think it : but, if it be, what 
then ? I'll do that which shall outdo all I've ever 



34 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

fione — ril not be baulk'd — My heart ha' been rent in 
twain ; and, tho' fate and devils do stand afore me, 
I'll burst through them all, but I'll have my hands 
full o' what they do long for. Landlord — Thomas, 
I say ? 

Enter Thomas, r. h. 

Bring me a whole pint o' brandy; no water, not a 
drop ; doan't thee stand there, I'll pay thee for't. 
Stop, I'll go with rhee myself — thee shan't stint me 
of a drop — I'm stone cold — my finger ends do feel 
like flakes of ice. — Come, Thomas, come ? 

[Exit, dragging Thomas after him, r. h. 

SCENE II. Wakefield's Cottage. 
Enter Jenny and Clara. 

Clara, He has something particular to tell me ? 

Jenny. Very, — and he won't say a word to any 
body while they do keep him lock'd up in the cage, 
not even to me. 

Clara. Mr. Charles threatens to punish him se- 
verely, for bringing a letter, which stated his brother 
to be ill, and was the cause of keeping him fron^ 
home all night. 

Jenny. He says sqmmut about that too, and that 
somebody gave it him to give somebody : but he 
won't tell nobody till he be out of the cage. 

Clara, pon't thpy intend to take him before the 
'Squire 

Jenny. I don't know ; he be shut up there for all 
the world like a bird; I ha' been to his uncle Peter, 
but he says, belike he desarves it, so he must abide 
by it ; and, if I hadn't give him some breakfast 
through the iron bars, he would have been starved 
\Q death. 

Clara. Well Jenny, be you here again in an hour: 
perhaps Mr. Charles may return. 

Jenny. Yes, madam ; for it be a hard thing, so it 
|3^, for a poor young man tp loose his character, be- 



LUKE THE LABOUUER. 3,^ 

cause 'Squire do choose to say a thing that be false ; 
but he does just as he likes— -I wish I were a queen^ 
or an emperor for his sake, I'd see whether a 'Squire 
should not go in a cage as well as a poor man, when 
he deserves it. Good day madam. 
Clara. Good day, Jenny. 

[^s Jenny is going out. Farmer Wakefield entera. 
— Jenny droj^s a courtesy, and exits, c. d. 
Tlake. Who be that > 

Clara. She came to inquire for Mr. Charles, re- 
specting the lad who gave him the false letter yes- 
terday. ^ 
Hake. Did Charles say he would be here again ? 
Clara. Yes, father, perhaps in an hour. 
J^ake. Oh !— Get me my chair. 
Clara. Yes, father, 

IClara brings the Farmer his chair, he sits. 
Tfake. Put my stick in the corner. 
Clara. Yes, father. 
IPake. Where be your mother-* 
Clara. Gone to market. 

Hake, Where do she get money to go to market ' 
I have none. "* 

Clara. Has not Charles been our friend ? 
IVake. True, I ha' borrowed a pound of him • I 
might as well say beggM it ; for I know not when I 
shall have another shilling to call my own. 
Clara. Nay, father let us hope for the best. 
nake, Hope !~don't talk to me of hope! what 
have I to look forward to > Nothing but a pauper's 
life ; and then I shall break my heart, and when 1 
be nailed down, to be carried to my grave, no one 
will care, no one will know about it ; there will be 
no passing-bell— nothing to let folks know, there 
goes poor Farmer W^akefield. 

Clara. Father, dear father, do not encourage such 
gloomy thoughts; there is no man so clouded by 
misfortune, but a star will glimmer through the? 



36 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

darkness, which pale as it may be is the light that 
bids us live, and look forward — 'tis the light of hope, 
father. 

Wake. Don't thee prate, don't thee prate ; thy fa- 
ther knows what has pass'd and he knows full well 
what's to come — {Rises.) — The workhouse. 

Clara. (.Almost overfioivered by her feelings.) Not 
•while I have health, and hands to work. 

Wake. Come hither, girl — I can't see thee just 
now, my old eyes be dimmer than usual — {Taking 
her in his arms) — Bless thee, bless thee, 

Enter Charles, c. d. 

Charles, be that you ? Do not stand away from us ; 
I be only pressing my only link of life to my heart. 

Char. I should not have come in so suddenly, but 
I have an impatient friend without, who has a desire 
to be introduced here. 

Hake. I don't want him ; he can't come in, who- 
ever he be. {Pettishly,) 

Clara. Not a friend oiyour friend, father ? 

Hake. You see Charles, I can't help a little old 
pride. I were once glad to see as many about me 
as would come ; but I have nothing now to make 
friends welcome with ; and it do cut me to the heart 
to seem as poor as I be. 

Char. This is a friend I know you will be glad to 
see ; and, if you do not, you will be sorry when he 
is gone, and you are told who he was. 

Hake. Where is he? 

Clara. You shall hear. {Charles goes So the door,) 
(Calling.) Neptune ahoy ! 

Phil. { Without.) Hillioh ! — Is the captain aboard ^ 

Clara. Heavens ! my preserver's voice ! 

Hake. What, the man that fought for thee last 
night } — Let him come in — let him come in. 

Enter Philip, c. d 
Welcome, my friend, welcome ; I'm glad to see thee, 
indeed I am ; and thank thee for my poor girl's pro- 
tection. 



LUKE THE LA130UKER. 37 

Phil. What cheer, my old master? — Glad to see 
you — avast, don't slip your cable yet — Lord love 
your old heart — ^Vhat the devil am I about ?— I beg 
your pardon, your honour, only you see I— that is — 
I suppose that's the tight little vessel that fell in 
with the enemy last night — split my binnicle, if she 
an't as handsomely built, and prettily rigg'd as e're 
a frigate in the service. 

JVake. I'm very sorry, my good fellow, that it be 
not in my power to reward you as you deserve ; but 
if a father's hearty thanks — 

PhiL Now, no palaver ; only rate me on your good 
books, and I'm satisfied. Glad I've found you, tho' 
— I'm but a young man, you see, tho' I've sailed the 
salt seas twelve years — east, west, north, and south 
-*-aloft and below. Have work'd my way through, 
as hard as any man, from a powder-monkey and 
cook- shifter to a foremast station ; and split my 
snatchblock, if e'er a poi poise fac'd landlubber in 
the world shall fall foul of a young woman against 
her will, when I'm within hail. 

Hake. Come, friend, sit you down ; the dame will 
soon be home. 

Phil. The dame ! — Your wife, I suppose — odds 
buntlines, but I'll stay to see her — poor old creature 
— Lord love her heart, {HalJ aside.) 

IVake. She will make you as welcome as our 
means will allow ; for I am but a poor man now, tho* 
I have known better days. 

Phil. Bless your old soul, don't mention it. (j^side.) 
Pitch me overboard, if I can stand it much longer. 
And that's your daughter ^ Splice my old shoes, I 
must fire a salute, f Crosses to Clara.) Beg pardon 
my lass, if I am somewhat too racketified ; but we 
sailors never see a pretty girl, but, somehow, "we 
want to — to — damn it, give us a buss. 
Char. What.^ 
Ifake. Eh? 



38 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Phil. Shiver me, if I know what I'm about. You 
must excuse me, you see, if I've sprung a leak in 
my manners. I'm a little outlandish at present — lost 
the helm of my conduct, as it were. But a word 
with you, commodore — I must put upon another 
tack; never mind my lingo — a man that's been half 
his life at sea, can't help smelling of old junk. 

Make. Bring a chair, girl? fTo Clara. J 

Phil. Not for me, your honour — avast now — I've 
something to say, something to overhaul that con- 
cerns you, 

Tfake, Concerns me. 

Phil. Bring up alongside, here — a hem — Didn't 
you lose a son ? 

Make. What, what ! — speak not of it — say not a 
word. Do you wish to make me go mad in your 
sight ^ C Turning away.) 

Clara. (Crossing to Phillip..) Oh, Sir, as you 
value my father's feelings, avoid that subject, he has 
forbidden it ever to be mentioned ; my mother dares 
not name it. 

Phil. I see how it is ; my pumps will be at work 
in a minute. (Aside.) Lord love your heart, I can't 
help it — I — I — don't be alarmed ; I've news of him. 

Wake. {Rushing between them.) News of whom ? 

Phil. Of your son. 

Wake. Of my boy > — Speak*— does he live ? 

Phil. Tight and hearty. 

Hake. Thank heaven! Come hither, Clara — I be 
so agitated — let me hold thee. My boy, my poor 
boy ; tell me ; tell me. Now, don't thee hurry ; 
tell me cooly ; you see I be cool. 

Phil. T was his messmate, you see — 

Tfake. Well ; go on ; but don't thee hurry. 

Phil. Many a taught gale we've weather'd toge- 
ther ; so you see, poor fellow — 

Make. Poor fellow ! What, be there any thing the 
matter ? But go on. 

Phil. Strike my topmast I shall run aground. 
(Aside.) He's anchor'd in foreign parts. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. . 39 

Clara. Then he's not in England! 

Wake. But he's alive; go on ; go on. Shall I see 
him again before I die? 

Phil. Here goes at once. C^^ide. ) I left him in 
the Indies ; you see, safely stow'd in a snug birth ; 
and he desired me, if I was cruising in these parts, 
to find you out, and let you know he was still on deck 
in the ship of life ; that, tho' he had a sweetheart in 
every port, he couldn't steer clear of a wife ; so got 
reev'd in the block of matrimony, and can man his 
jolly-boat with a couple of young tars, that know- 
how to splice a rope already. (Aside.) Split my 
capstan but that's a whistler. 

Wake. Clara ! Charles ! Run look for the dame ; 
this news must not be kept ; fly ; you'll find her on 
the road home from market ; but, be careful, tell 
her slowly at first ; and stop, Clara ; tell her to bring 
home something good for the stranger ; and, hark 
ye, (Aside to her.) let her spend every farthing, 
before we appear to be stinted. Mind that now, 
mind that. 

Clara. Yes father; and I'll tell her to hasten 
home. 

Wake. Do, girl do. {Exit Clara.) After her, Char- 
les, after here ; you'll manage better between you. 

Char. Excuse me, Farmer ; b«t this man must be 
made welcome, so pray accept. (Aside to Wake- 
Jield.) 

Wake. No, no ; I won't hear of it. No more, no 
more. Nay nay ; now go after the girl, and take 
care of her : I won't, I tell you. {Putting Charles 
out at the door.) My poor boy ; how I should like 
to see him. 

Phil. Should you } Should you } No, I won't ; not 
yet ; not yet. {Asid.,.) 

Wake. But I shall hear from him, I hope. How 
came he to turn sailor ? Where did he go to ? 
Who took him, away from me ? 

Phil. That is all duly entered on his log-book, and 
will be shipped home the first opportunity. 



40 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Wake. If I could but see him once before I died ; 
but I never shall be so happy. Do you know when 
he were lost ? I were next to a madman for a whole 
fortnight ; no sleep no rest. I were then a prosperous 
man, with acres of land, and full barns ; but the loss 
of my boy made me neglect ever thing ; I did not 
care what came ; bad luck followed bad luck ; and 
misfortunes did then begin, which ended in my ruin. 

Fhil. Very molloncholy. ( Hifiing his eyes.) But 
cheer up, my worthy master — you'll be well timber- 
ed yet. 

IVake. No, no, want have griped me too hard. 

Phil. Now what would you think if I was to say ; 
{aloud shout without.) Holloa! Is that your York- 
shire warhoop } 

Wake, (Going to the door.) As I live the lads 
have gotten an old gipsy, and are ducking him in 
Prickle's pond. 

Phil. A gipsy! stand aside, no; yes, start my tim- 
bers; split my binnacle if they touch a hair of his 
head. I know him. Farmer; I know him. Belay 
there, belay. Let me come alongside — Hilloah. 

\_Exit. 

Wake. (Calling after him.) Come back to see the 
dame. 

Phil. {Without.) Oy, oy, master. 
( The scene closes.) 

SCENE III.— ^ Vieiv of the Country. 

A shout ivithout. Enter Villagers, dragging on 
Michael, l. h. 
Mich. For the love of heaven, no more ; you'll 
kill me, you'll kill me. 

Is; Vil. Away with him again ! 
2nd Vil. Throw him into the mill-stream. 
AIL The mill-stream— -the mill-stream ! 
( They are proceeding to drag him o^— Philip en- 
ters, L. H. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 41 

Phil. Hilloah! Avast, ye cannibals! — Sea room, 
sea room, here. fPhilifi drives them off with his cud- 
gel — Michael sinks on the ground — Philifi raises him 
ufi.) Cheerly, old Triton, cheerly. How do you 
feel in your hold t 

Mich. Blessings on you. 

Phil. What are they doing with your old hull ? 

Mich. Another dip would have killed me — they 
were drowning me — I'm a poor gipsy. 

Phil. I know you are — Where's the crew ? 

Mich. About a mile off, in a meadow. 

Phil. Just the thing. Now, Beelzebub, we shall 
be a match for you. 

Mich. They wanted to drown me for only looking 
into a henroost — a murrain seize every mother's son 
of 'em. 

Phil. I understand ; the old tricks, Michael. 

Mich. Who told you my name ? 

Phil. I know the trim of your vessel well ; but 
mum for the present; the coast is clear, so make the 
best of your way to the gang; here's some shot to 
put in your locker. {Givirig money.) 

Mich. Blessings on you. 

Phil. Go back to the tent, and bring a few of your 
lads to Farmer Wakefield's, in this port: 

Mich. What for ^ 

Phil. I want to overhaul an affair of consequence. 

Mich. But tell me— Is Farmer Wakefield still 
alive ? 

Phil. You'll see him without a telescope, if you 
obey my orders; but say — Will you come this even- 
ing.^ 

Mich. It must be after dark, then. I know Far- 
mer Wakefield well enougli by name ; perhaps I 
know a matter concerning him too. 

Phil, I shall be on the lookout for you ; don't let 
your memorv start a timber. 

Mich. But', Master Sailor, tell me if— 

Phil. I can't stand palavering here; I must push ofi 
to the King's Head for my cargo. Now, belay, clap 



42 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

a stopper on your tongue, and be mum till you see 
me at the farmer's ; any body will direct you — obey 
my orders, and I'll make you an admiral ; mutiny 
and I'll blow you to the Devil. £,jcit, ii. h. 

Mich. But, Master Sailor — 

F/iil. {Without.)—! shall look for you old Mike. 

Mich. Old Mike ! How should he know my name ? 
— Well, I must hear what the lads say to this 
business — Old Mike's very cold— duckponds and mill- 
streams don't agree with old limbs — lucky I should 
meet with that sailor — he's given me five shillings. 
I'll try and scrape up a halfpenny more. 

Enter Luke, l. h. 
Spare a halfpenny for the love of charity — poor old 
man — seventy odd — spare a halfpenny. 

Luke. {Crossing:) Don't thee bother, don't thee 
bother. 

Mich. Ah — let me look at you ; let me look at ye. 
(Jside.) I know you — know you well — won't you 
spare a halfpenny to an old acquaintance ^ 

Luke. Dom thee, be quiet — I ha' nothing about me, 

Mich. You won't, not a farthing ^ 

Luke. If thee doesn't budge, I'll put thee in the 
stocks for a vagram ! 

Mich. You will put me in the stocks ! Then evil 
betide you, ill luck blight you. Put me in the stocks ! 
Hark ye — I could ruin you, vagram as I am ; you 
may look, man. Come hither let me whisper in your 
ear {laying hold of his arm.) Don't thee flinch and 
shake at my cold hand — but it is chilly with the wa- 
ter; bend down your ear and I'll make you tremble 
from head to foot. 

Luke. Be you mad — why dost thee gripe me so 
hard — I don't know thee. 

Mich. You don't — {Michael ivhisfiers in Luke''s car.) 

Luke. {In great terror.) Toads and serpents ! 
(Aside.) Be it you } I thought you had been dead and 
buried — have you brought him here ? 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 4a 

Mich. Hhnl him you say? You remember that 
too ? Wilt put me in the stocks now ? 

Luke. (Aside.) It be all out now, for sartin — here 
be money for you ; so be quiet about that, not a word. 

Mich. Money ! I wont touch it — when the poor 
old gipsy ask'd for charity, you had nothing about 
you ; but, now he can tread you to dust, you can find 
silver in your pockets, but I won't touch it ; no nor 
gold. You'll forget an old acquaintance, will you? 
I won't have it ; not a halfpenny ; not a farthing ; not 
a mite. Exit l. h. 

huke. Now I* do know the worst ; now 1 be more 
comfortable than I ha' been for mony a day ; because 
I be fix'd what to do. Ere this week be out, the turf 
may be on my head ; but I shall have a neighbour in 
the same plight, and then I shall rest content. (Bob- 
by heard ivithout^ singing.) That be the lad's voice ; 
bqoire ha' let him out, I suppose, now it be all over 
about the girl. 

Enter Bobby, l. h. 

Bob. Tol de rol lol— Tol de rol lol, I be out ; I be 
but. Ah, Measter Luke, bean't you ashamed to look 
me in the face ! I might ha* been kept i' the cage till 
Christmas for what you'd ha' car'd. Dickens and 
daisies, how deadly white you be. 

Luke. I know it — I know it. {Turning away) 

Bob. I see how it be — conscience ha' flung her flour- 
sack in your face ; but it do sarve thee right, for I ha* 
lost my good character through being your postman, 
and I'm sure you can't help me to another ; so the 
sooner I get to Lunnun, the better for I. {Looking 
out.) Eh ! — sure and sure, there be a chay going 
along the road like the wind. 

Luke. A chay ? {Looking out.) 

Bob. Oh dear, I wish 1 had my bundle, Pd run af- 
ter it and jump up behind — I'm sure it be going to 
Lunnun. 

Luke. {Looking out with astonishment.) It be 
Squire's — yes it be, and there he sits inside, sure 



44 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

enough. Then he ha' run away, and left me to fight 
it out by myself. 

Bob. Oh, my bundle ! I wish I had my bundle. 

Luke. A chicken-hearted coward! he couldn't stay 
and face it out as I do ; but let him go, I shall man- 
age it better now. I must clean up my pistols ; my 
heart be already fix'd, and I feel as bold as a lion. 
A drop more brandy ; a look at my wife's grave ; a 
good long thing of what ha' passed, and then for the 
finish of my long, long day's work. \_ExU Luke, l. h. 

Bob. What cruel pity it be I hadn't my bundle; 
I can't go without it, because there be my new shoes, 
and clean stockings, and a waistcoat that cost me the 
matter o' two shillings, all pack'd up in it. But stop ; 
canna' Maester Luke send it after me, directed Mis- 
ter Robert Trott, Lunnun .^ To be sure he can. 
Dang it if I don't go then ; the chay must stop to 
change horses, so I'll run till I overtake it. Now 
for it ; nothing shall stop me, good bye, every body, 
and now for Lunnun. 

\_As he is running off^ two Villagers enter, and seize 
him. 

1st Vil. So we have caught you at last, my little 
tom tit. 

Bob. What, be I stopped again .^ 

1st Vil. Farmer Charles has a word to say to you. 

Bob. Now doan't — let me go; let me go, and I'll 
give you two shillings. 

1st Vil. No, Master Bobby, that won't answer ; so 
come quietly. 

Bob. {laying down.) I'll be shot if I wool. 

2d Vil. Come, no obstinacy. 

Bob. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! caged, horsewhipped, 
and killed ; I shall never get to Lunnun. 

[ They drag him off^ kicking and struggling* 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 45 

SCENE W.— Interior of Wakefield's Cottage. 

A table set out for supfier ; Philip, Wakefield, 
Dame, Charles, and Clara discovered j P/iili/i*s 
bundle is on a stool near him. 

Dame. Don't thee say no. Master Sailor. 

Phil. No more, dame, I thank you; I've stow'd 
away enough for the night. Come, Farmer, cheer 
up, don't be down-hearted. What, though you be 
somewhat founder'd, who knows but the next breeze 
may send you spanking along with wind and wea- 
ther. 

Hake. And be all that so valuable ^ 

Phil. What, my cargo ! Don't say a word ; only 
wait till morning, and I'll show you the stuff in a 
box here, that shall set your heart afloat in a sea of 
joy ; talk of bank notes ; ropes-end and old junk to 
this ; but wait till a friend calls here for me, aRd, if 
you don't dance a hornpipe on the quarter deck, I'm 
no seaman. Where's old Mike, I wonder ? I sup- 
pose it must rest till the morning. (Aside.) Come, 
my lass, lord love you, I like to look at you ; you do 
mount a smile and cheer us a bit ; what say you to 
join me in a ditty ! Poor Jack, Black-Eyed Susan, 
or The Old Commodore ! 

Hake. No, no ; no singing; I be tired, and — 

Phil. Belay, belay, don't run foul of my inclina- 
tion. Come, come, pipe all hands for fun ; sew up 
old care in a blanket, and pitch him to Davy Jones. 
Nothing like a ditty ; aloft in a storm, on deck at 
the mid-watch, or buffeting with the billows of mis- 
fortune, what cheers the heart like a good old song ; 
when the deck has been clearing for action, what 
could make us fight better than " Rule Britannia, 
Britannia Rules the Waves ;" or, " Stand to your 
Guns, my Hearts of Oak ;" and, when wounded, in 
the cockpit, what could better teach us to bear our 
misfortunes like men, than, •' Here, a sheer Hulk, 
lies poor Tom Bowling." 



46 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Hake. Well, well, do as you will. Come, girl, 
do thy best. 

Phil. That's your sort ; that's tight and hearty. 
SONG— (C/ara.) 
Young Susan had lovers so many, that she 
Hardly know upon which to decide ; 
They all spoke sincerely and promised to be 

So worthy of such a sweet bride. 
In the morning she'd gossip with William, and then 

'V\\e noon would be spent with young Harry, 
The evening with J(jhn ; so, among all the men, 
She never could tell which to marry. 
Heigho ! heigho ! 
I'm afraid, 
That too many lovers will puzzle a maid. 

William grew jealous, and so went away, 

Yovmg Harry got tired of Avooing ; 
AVhile John having teased her to fix on the day, 

Received but a frown for so doing. 
So, among all her lovers, quite left in the lurch. 

She wept every night on her pillow ; 
And meeting, one day, a pair going to church. 

Turned away and died under a willow. 
Heigho ! heigho! 
I'm afraid 
That too many lovers will puzzle a maid. 

P/2z7. That's the sort of thing : splice me ; what 
d'ye think o' that pipe, my commodore ; well, here's 
wishing you may be a captain's wife ; no offence, I 
hope ; I see how the land lies ; excuse me if I've lost 
the steerage of my tongue. 

Dame. But I want you to talk about my poor boy. 

flake. Silence, Dame ; have I not told thee not to 
speak on't at present ! Be quiet, I say : I'm thinking 
how the sailor may be accommodated here ; Dame 
Hillock said you could sleep at her cottage ! (To 
Clara.) 

Clara. Yes, father; she will come for me before 
she goes to rest. 

Phil, What, turn the lass out of her hammock ; 
no, that won't do. Yet I should like to rest here 
too ; I should sleep so comfortable. 



, LUKE THE LABOURER. 47 

^^ Wa^e Hark he, Master Sailor, you shall have my 

Phil. Now, now ; commodore. 

l^ake. I insist upon it : 'tis the best bed in my 
poor home, and you shall sleep in it. ^ 

Phil. Huzza ! {Cuts a cafier.) I could jump over 
the moon. {Aside.) Where can old Mike be ? 

. wJt^l '• K°I".t* ^"u» ^^\ ^^^^5^- Charles will go 
* with you, but there be no fear of any more such work 
as happened last night. 

Clara Good night, father. Charles, you mieht 

stay with n.y father, to amuse him for half an hour 

and advise for the best. I have only a few yards to 

go, and shall not be out of hearing. j ua tu 

Char. I can return immediately 

n5.hf^i^°*."°' ^/° ''^^ ^^^h t°s5t up late to 
night , I be fatigued, and do want rest : so kiss me 

f.'c • ^"/.f "T^^!'^^' S°°^ "^S^^- Good night. Char- 

les and thank thee for your kindness. 

cingme? ^ there--are you going without noti- 

Clara. Good night, my friend. 

Phil. Give me your hand ; good night, mv lass 
lord love you. iEa:it Clara and Charles^ {JsZl )lt'l 
no use waiting, for old Mike won't come to-night-so 
II surprise 'em all to morrow ; I am very sorry to 
put you about m this way, but— ^ 

Hc?^"^^*^^l^ no more, my friend. Dame, take a 
light, and show the sailor up stairs. 

Phil. What, so soon ! Well, just as you please- 

\^1a[J ^^"".^ ""'Sh^, noble captain ; pipe all 
Imnds at five o'clock, for I've a day's work to do 
We 11 jig It to-morrow, to the piping of goldfinches • 
heave a-head, Dame. Good night, old CommodorV. 

'•^v/,P^'^^ ^r^c^a^^5 Philip ufi the stairs with a 
liJL Farmer is shaking hands with them, 
and the scene shuts them in. 



48 LUKE THE LABOURER. 



SCENE v.— The back iiart of Wakefield's cot- 
tage. A light is seen through a window in the flat. 

Enter Luke, with a brace of fiistols in his hand. 

R. H. 

Luke. There be a light in the place where the 
Farmer sleeps ; I'll watch here till it be out, and 
then he'll be in bed, I must get round the garden, 
climb up the gate at the side, and get in at the win- 
dow. {The light seen through the luindow goes out.) 
Ah, he ha' put out the candle ; now to make all 
ready for climbing — this shall do it. — I'll take my 
aim steady and sure ; then I'll snap the trigger ; then 
there'll be a stunning sound, a cry of death, a flood- 
ing o' blood on the floor, and Luke's revenge finished. 
Ha! ha! this will be one of the merriest nights I 
ha' passed for mony a year — I ha' been drinking, too, 
all day, but instead of getting drunk, it ha' made me 
fierce and bold, f He places the pistol in a belt un^ 
der his frock. J Now for it — gently, be q\iite, don't 
thee be scared, or my hand will shake — lay still, lay 
still. (Striking his breast.) Now I be right again — 
'twere but a little fit, and now I be firm as oak. 

[Exit, L. H. 

IMusic — Enter Micrael, followed by two Gipsies 
R. H. They advance a few fiaces^ as if watching 
Luke. 

Mich. There he goes — hush lad — I know he's af- 
ter something; going to rob the house maybe ; we'll 
teach him to spurn a poor old gipsy; hush. 

1st Gi/i. He's climbing up the fence. 

Mich. Follow him, lads. — follow him, — see what 
he be about ; and than for the sailor,~now, gently — 
no noise. [Music and Exeunt, l, h. 



LUKE THE LABOURER. 49 



SCENE VI. 

A bed-room in the cottage. Bed in the corner, Phi- 
lip is discovered laying asleep. — 4 window^ through 
which the moon is seen shining ; a door in flat — Mu 
sic. Luke is at the window, in the act of climbing 
ufi ; he ofiens it gently, and advances one leg in^ 
and resting on the side, looks towards the bed ; he 
speaks in a whisper. 

Luke. He sleeps ; and alone, I think. Now Far-, 
mer, we shall be even. 

[He cocks his pistol, and levels it at Philip ; at that 
moment the Hrst Gipsy appears at the window, 

I.uke. My hand do shake so, I shall miss him. 
Ut Gipsy, Aye, that thee shalt. 

l^Music. — The Gipsy dislodges Luke from his seat, 
and throws him into the room ; the pistol goes off 
in the air ; in the act, Philip springs from the bed, 
seizes Luke, and drags him to the front of the 
stage, 

1st Gipsy. Hold him tight ; hold him tight. 

The Gipsy enters at the window. 

Phil. Holloa! Farmer, Farmer Wakefield, we're 
boarded by pirates ; I'll grapple you ; what, Luke ! 

[Music. The Dame enters with a light, followed by 
the Farmer, Clara, Charles, Michael, and 
the other Gipsy, at the door, in Jiat. 

Wake. Luke, what be the meaning of this ? 

Mich. Stop— hear old Gipsy Mike : — Master Luke 
stole away your boy, and sold him to me ; I took 
care of him till one day — 

Phil. He ran away, and went to sea — I am that 
boy. 



50 LUKE THE LABOURER. 

Farmer. \ 

Dame. )>-You ! 

Clara. \ 

Charles.^ 

Wake. You my boy Philip ! 

Fhil. Aye, old Mike will soon know me. 

[Luke struggles with Philip, and succeeds in draw- 
ing another iiistol from his belt^ and is levelling at 
the Farmer, when Philip thrusts back his arm, 
and hvKK, receiving the ^re, falls dead. 

Wake. My boy ! My boy ! Your old Father's arms 
are open to receive you. 

[Philip runs into Wakefield's arms; then the 
Dame is warmly embraced by him ; Wakefield 
kneels ; Philip takes Clara round the waist, and 
occufiies the centre of the stage ; the Gipsies fill 
up, one side, ana Michael and Charles the 
other. The Curtain falls. 

the end. 



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. TRPQRY OF CONGRESS 

'"^™014 389 189 6 



